


Let Go

by Zarla



Series: Vargas Stories [14]
Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Supernatural Elements, suicide in a strange symbolic kind of sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-06
Updated: 2006-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24089410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla
Summary: He's killing them both. He knows that he is. At least one of them should survive.How do you die when you don't technically exist?
Relationships: Edgar/Scriabin
Series: Vargas Stories [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/20964
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic I found. Set in Vargas, as usual, but in a vague off-shoot kind of place where Edgar has more power over Scriabin than he actually does. Somewhere after chapter 15.

He could see it happening. He watched the black tendrils winding their way through his memories, through his life, in and out of the architecture and the people and the small items. He knew that shade of black, he knew the glint of a silver belt buckle in the night when he slept beside him, for his protection of course.

He knew what was happening. Most of the time he wished that he didn't, but he knew that this knowledge would be what was most important in times to come. One of them had to know what was happening, and it just so happened that it was him. He didn't like the odds cast, the fate laid at his feet but he knew it had to come to one of them. He didn't want it to be him.

In a way, he didn't want to show this much inner strength.

This much selflessness.

He watched the black veins spreading like cancer, watched them crawl across Edgar's face as he slept, when he brushed the hair away from his face when he was sure that Edgar would never know. He kept his tenderness to himself because he didn't trust Edgar with it, and he knew Edgar wouldn't trust him with it either. His soft touches, light and perhaps loving if he felt that sentimental and cliche about it, were kept only to him and now, the dark disease that spread itself across his world. He had tried many things to keep it away, to try and ward it off somehow. To explain it, understand it. It all eluded him.

In the deepest sleep, when he knew Edgar wouldn't remember, he bared his soul to him. He let himself be soft, be kind, be gentle as he knew he could be because Edgar could be so. He touched Edgar softly, paid attention to what he wanted, said everything they both wanted and meant it in hopes that it would stop this blight.

It did not work.

He knew it wouldn't, somewhere. In the part of him that could see the solution, no matter how frightening, he knew what the source of this sickness was. He knew it in those occasional flashes of light in the darkness, a coat buckle and the shine from a pair of reflective glasses and the laughter he heard sometimes when he was alone that did not come from him, but sounded just like...

In a way, he had long suspected that perhaps he was doing harm. Not intentionally and for the greater good in the end, he had convinced himself. Everything he did was for the greater good in the end. He knew what he was doing.

That was the problem. He knew what he was doing.

He could not deny the effect he was having, he could not pretend that the black lines that crawled across Edgar's face like living decay did not exist. The memories that defined them both were falling apart, eaten away by this encroaching death.

That was what this meant. That was the only thing this meant. There was only one way to do this.

He had wondered casually at times whether or not he could take his own life. He had not created himself, so to speak, but no life ever had. Suicide, however, didn't rely on who created what. If he was alive, he could die. It was how the difference between the two was defined.

He had tried, sometimes, to spite Edgar. At those times, he knew that he didn't really want to die. He wanted Edgar to feel guilty for doing this to him, he wanted to show Edgar that he was hurting, but he had never wanted to die.

He still didn't want to die.

That's what this blackness meant.

Venemous poison...he knew it. And Edgar, he could feel it taking its toll on him. He knew that the waking world was shifting and faltering as the unconscious broke apart, all absorbed into an unintentional sideffect of his existence.

Of course, he didn't intend for this to happen. That didn't change the reality of things.

He knew what he would have to do. He knew what they would both have to do.

The two of them were on the couch. Edgar laid quietly in his arms, thinking or perhaps even drifting off. A quiet, deep place that maybe Edgar would remember. At this point, Scriabin was not afraid to allow some indication of his capacity for kindness to be remembered. He still felt that there was a kind of inherent weakness in kindness, in all things Edgar, but there was still some kind of strange contentment in indulging them, in sharing a kind of common ground with him. In letting go, for once.

Letting go.

"Do you know what I'm doing to you?" Scriabin asked.

Edgar didn't say anything at first, then replied with, "You're holding me. Kind of odd for you."

Scriabin rested his hand on top of Edgar's, watched the black lines crawl across their skin together, digging deep beneath the layers. Edgar's eyes were closed.

"I have to leave," Scriabin said to him.

"No you don't," Edgar said, which perhaps meant more than he intended.

"I'm killing us," Scriabin said.

"Nonsense."

Minutes where Scriabin breathed and noticed that his heart beat irregular against Edgar's back.

"You have to let me go."

"Since when are you my decision?"

Scriabin entwined his fingers with Edgar's and closed his eyes.

"I can't stay here."

"Do you want to leave?"

"I can't stay here."

Edgar moved as though he would turn to face him. Scriabin was tempted to stop him, but let the two of them at least look at each other face to face.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Scriabin kept his eyes closed and kept his voice steady.

"I'm leaving. You have to let me go."

"Why?"

Someone said something once along the lines of you weren't afraid to be born, so why be afraid to die? Scriabin tried to focus on that and not the desire to hold Edgar closer to him.

"I'm killing us."

Edgar blinked and did not respond as quickly.

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

Edgar stared and Scriabin stared back at him. He watched the black veins creep towards his eyes.

"You have to let me go," Scriabin said.

Edgar stared at him for another minute.

"I don't know how. I thought I couldn't."

"You can."

"I don't know how."

"We'll both die."

"I don't know how." Edgar's voice broke.

Scriabin couldn't look at him anymore. He pressed his forehead against Edgar's shoulder and felt him tense underneath his strengthening grip.

"You just have to let me go. Stop holding on to me."

"I don't want to."

Couldn't look at him.

"You have to."

"I don't want to, all the things you've done-"

No, Edgar couldn't be talking about the deeper hidden dreams. Scriabin would not allow himself to consider that possibility.

"I have to leave."

He could feel Edgar's breath quickening.

"You're better off without me. You don't need me."

Scriabin was glad he was such a good liar.

"But..."

"Let me go."

So glad.

Edgar shifted, moved away and turned to face Scriabin completely. Scriabin kept his eyes focused on his gray shirt and refused to look up to meet Edgar's eyes. Edgar's arms closed around him and Scriabin pressed his head against Edgar's collarbone and shivered.

He let his arms close tightly around him, as tight as he could manage.

"Let me go," Scriabin said.

"I don't...know how..."

"You do. You just can't put it in words." Scriabin grabbed the fabric of Edgar's shirt tightly in his fists until his hands shook. "You know how. You've always known, but you've never...had to. You have to now. We've let it go on for too long as it is."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"This couldn't have been prevented." Scriabin didn't know if that was true or not but didn't care. "I didn't..."

He couldn't say it. This would be hard enough for Edgar as it is. He would have to accept this because Edgar would follow his example.

God, he didn't want to die.

"I think we always knew that you'd survive out of the two of us. I'm ready for this. This is how it has to be."

"Isn't there any other way...?"

"No." Scriabin shuddered, felt Edgar's hold around him tighten. He tried to memorize what warm felt like. "No."

"I don't want to do this."

"There's no other option. Either I die...or we both die."

"Why can't we-"

"It's not what you want."

Edgar was silent for a little while.

"It's not what _you_ want, is it?"

Scriabin shuddered and felt his entire body tense up, muscles contracting and he would have curled into a ball if Edgar's body hadn't been in the way. His throat felt so constricted that he was surprised that he made the sound he did. He didn't want to cry.

"One of us should survive."

"Why?"

Scriabin was quiet. The bridge of his glasses was pinching his nose painfully and digging gouges in his skin and he could almost feel the black sickness moving underneath his hands.

"Then we both survive. In a way."

Edgar was silent again. Scriabin felt Edgar's hand gently run through his hair and he choked for a few seconds. He could feel Edgar's heartbeat under his hands, shaking.

"How much of you do I have to let go of...?"

"Enough..."

"Will I remember you?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know how..."

"Let me go." He could lie, it was how he was born, it was how he had grown, it was what he woven around himself and he could lie when it counted, he could lie no matter the circumstances, no matter the truth. "You have to let me go. I can't stay."

Edgar's hands were so gentle. His scalp tingled and Scriabin kept the growing amount of sobs from escaping and he could barely breathe. There was so much he wanted to say, so much but this wasn't the time...there would never be a time. They would die with him, and that was how he had always thought it would go. He didn't want his last moments to be marred with tears. If this was the memory that Edgar kept, then it wasn't the last image he wanted to remain.

He held Edgar close and breathed through his shirt, sniffled and kept his eyes shut. He felt Edgar's arms around him and Scriabin let his fists relax and his hands tingled for a few seconds, then went numb.

Scriabin coughed and let go.

He remembered, or Edgar remembered, that someone had said that the true secret to immortality was to change someone else's life, and through them influence the lives of others, a long continuing chain of ripples from one pebble in someone's life.

He didn't believe it, but he hoped Edgar did.


End file.
